Bonus Hearts
by FlamingRavenclaw
Summary: Deleted scenes from "Video Love." These clips either disturbed the main story or they came about after the fact. They can be read as one-shots, but it may be confusing without the backstory. Occasional updates. Poofless/WoofFrags. Warnings: vulgar language, violence, graphic imagery, mental illness, possibly tears and nightmares. Warnings are subject to change.
1. Senpai

**This chapter should have been added between chapters 7 and 8 of "Video Love," but it was written too late to be added to the timeline. These chapters can be read as one-shots, although they may not make much sense out of context.**

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 **January 6, 2011 at 11 PM, Fort Worth, TX: Preston**

"GG, dude. Are you up for a rematch sometime? Because that was _bad_ ," I laugh as normally as I can but some of my nervousness shows through it. I want to ask him to record with me again but that's always the most awkward part of the whole thing. I don't wanna look desperate to work with him again and look like an idiot, but I totally am. Wait, I meant the desperate part, not the idiot part. Whatever. Now I'm not even thinking straight. There's just something about Rob that makes me lose my ish and it's so stupid.

"I don't know. Are you?" I can hear him smiling on the other end of the Skype call and for once I'm really glad he doesn't have a webcam. At least it's a good sign that he isn't gonna turn me down, right?

"Yeah, dawg, 'course I'm down. I'll always jump at another chance to kick your butt."

"Oh, really? That wasn't what happened today." He has to be grinning ear to ear now. Just hearing his voice when he's smiling like that makes it impossible for me not to smile, too. This guy is infectious. "When are you available to get rekaroonied again?" I pull out the planner they gave me in homeroom at school that I only ever use for YouTube stuff and flip to this week.

"I have nothing going on Sunday. Would that be good?" Rob pauses for a few seconds and I can hear him shuffling around at his desk while he looks for something. "All the noobs on Black Ops would love you. It'd keep me from nuking their butts all freaking day and night."

"Sure, what time?"

"Same time, same place for a rematch?" He hums in agreement and I can hear him scribbling away on a squeaky whiteboard like the pleb he is. Could he be any more nerdy, like seriously? "I still can't believe how bad you pwned me with that bow. That sucked so hard, dude."

"What can I say, man? I'm good at sucky things." I don't even know why it's funny but whenever he does that weak little pitiful voice it just hits me right in the giggledick and I can't stop laughing.

"Tell me more about these 'sucky things,' MrWoofless."

"Oh, indeed, good sir. Seriously though, do you have a few minutes before you go? There is something we need to talk about." Oh, crap. What'd I do this time? It wasn't Jerome was it? Did I screw something up and get him on my case again?

"Yeah, sure. What is it?"

"Okay, first of all, it isn't _that_ serious so lighten up a little." He sounds like he's still smiling but I don't wanna let my guard down and have all my hopes and dreams crushed. "You okay there?"

"Yeah, it's all good. That's just usually what my parents say before they turn off the internet for a week." He laughs again and that makes it just a little less terrifying. What could he wanna tell me off about?

"No, I didn't mean for it to sound like a punishment. It is what you make of it, so whether or not you call it a punishment depends on how much lemonade you put in your glass. I just wanted to take a minute to talk to you about our lord and savior Katniss Everdeen." Where the frick is he going with this? Is he drunk?

"Sure, but Benja's gonna come axe you a question if he hears you talking about his babe."

"I can deal with Mitch later. Right now, he is the least of my concerns." Uh, oh. This doesn't sound good after all. "Okay, man, chill out and stop making that face. You don't even have your webcam on and I can still see the mushroom cloud over your head all the way up here in Canada. I didn't mean it like that. Just take a chill pill, sit back, and try to learn something."

"Fine. What do ya want?"

"Now, I have a good time working with you, you know that. You seem like a nice guy and I don't want you to take this the wrong way."

"Go on." Who told him to do this and why? I thought we were good after what happened last month.

"You do a good job on your YouTube channels and I applaud you for that, but if you want us to keep working together, we both need you to be doing a great job. You need to step up your game a little before the game steps on _you_." Okay, so this might be more useful than I thought but I still won't like it.

"And how do you propose I do that, Your Majesty? Add a butt ton of flowers?" He gives a snort of laughter and I can hear him messing around with stuff again. Maybe it'd be nice to have a video call after all because I don't know where this is going and it's getting weird.

"Before you get too geeked out and hang up on me, just hear me out. I have this system I use, like a checklist, to make sure I have everything done on a video before I publish it. You might get more use out of it than you think." I can hear his marker squealing on the whiteboard and I try my best not to roll my eyes even though he can't see me. I take back what I said earlier: apparently he _can_ get even nerdier. "So the acronym is 'Katniss E.' with a C instead of a K."

"Should I be writing this down, senpai?"

"If you think you need it, kohai." My face breaks out into the dumbest grin ever and I should feel bad but I totally don't. For as lame as he is, that comeback was on point. "Okay, so the first thing you need is 'color,' which you have the right idea about. On your COD channel all of your thumbnails have that disgusting mustard yellow, which is certainly colorful, but that might not be what you want your viewers to picture when they think of your channel."

"Where're you getting this from?"

"I saw it on your channel. You know… online?"

"No, I know that, you pleb. Where're you getting this advice from?"

"Oh, I don't know. Three years on YouTube and a bachelor's degree in business management might have helped it along." He has a point there and it'd be a good idea to listen to him even if the whole thing is really freaking dorky. I sigh and fish a pen out of the desk drawer and write down his dumb cheat sheet.

"Fine, I'm listening."

"Don't sound too excited there."

"I am surry senpai, continue plz." He laughs for a second before he goes back to torturing the whiteboard.

" 'Color.' You can keep your current theme if you want to, but you should make it eye-catching and consistent on each channel. If you could somehow come up with a color scheme that would encompass _both_ of your channels, that would be even better. The content is so different, though… That might be harder to do."

"So you want me to color code everything?"

"In a way, yes. When you go to the store and try to find a box of cereal in a hurry, what do you look for?" He pauses for a second but when I don't answer he just continues. "You look for the artwork, right? You look for something familiar, something the company is known for. In other words, you need to make yourself into a brand, something your viewers can always identify when they scroll through their video feed."

"Catch their attention."

"Right, but in a consistent way. You want to catch their eye the first time, but you want them to recognize your signature or logo every time after that. It builds a relationship with your audience when they know they can depend on you to have reliable, easily-identifiable uploads. Whether they like to admit it or not, people like consistency."

"Alright, that makes sense. Then what?" He seems a little too excited about this and it's hilarious and horrible at the same time. He did this in college for how many years? That must've really sucked.

"The next one is similar, but different enough that it gets its own category. You need to draw 'attention' to your videos how ever you can without making yourself look like a try-hard. This can be thumbnails, titles, collaborators, prerelease advertising, or anything else you can think of. You do a good job on this already, but you need to refrain from body slamming the Shift key and stabbing the exclamation point and question mark." I can't help but snicker at that and I nod even though he can't see me.

"Got it. So no screaming in the title."

"Right. Keep the screaming _in_ the video, not _on_ it."

"Yes senpai, plz continue ze rant."

"Patience, kohai, or you will never reach the level of 'senpai.' Being a cute little cactus is only going to get you so many views before being cute and prickly just isn't enough." I pretend to give a big sigh right into the microphone and he just laughs.

"What next?"

"T is for 'theme,' which can mean the kinds of content you upload or a recurring trend in your gameplay. For example, Mitch's theme is playing Hunger Games until his eyes bleed and mainly posting the games he wins. This boosts his viewers' confidence in his skills and builds up his brand name as 'The King of the Hunger Games.' Jerome's theme, on the other hand, is 'humor over victory.' He posts games he finds personally amusing, usually at the cost of him actually winning. As a result, his viewers watch him for his humor, not his PVP skills. He markets himself as Mitch's funny sidekick."

"And you're 'The Flower King' who hits every bow shot ever but can't complete a parkour map without crying?" He huffs and scribbles on his whiteboard again.

"Yeah, but we don't talk about that."

"You know, if we're gonna keep recording together you should really let me teach you how to parkour. You have to step up your game before the game steps on _you_." Rob just chuckles at his own line being used against him and I fill in the spot next to the T. I wonder if this weird video outline thing of his is gonna improve my sub to view ratio or if he's just talking out of his butt.

"Honestly, I might take you up on that. The next part is 'names,' which includes not just your name but also the names of _everybody_ in the video." I cringe at that and write it in next to the N. I still wish I hadn't left him out of our first two videos even though I went back and fixed it. That's still a sore spot for both of us and I swear I'll never do that to anyone ever again.

"Got it."

"Good. Now we are on to 'image,' which is the overall image you want to have for your channel. This is all about building a reputation for yourself and your work, and the best way to do that is to have high standards for your uploads. This would also be a good time to go back through your old videos and private anything that doesn't meet those standards. Don't delete it, but make it so your viewers only see uploads that _you_ would want to watch. Sitting through something and wanting to watch something are two very different things." He makes a good point but that's gonna be a whole lotta work I wasn't counting on doing. I already have a couple hundred uploads and watching my old stuff isn't my idea of a nice Sunday afternoon.

"Yeah, I'll start working on that this weekend. Sounds like that'll be painful."

"Just a bit. You should make sure you know where the nearest garbage can is. I almost lost my bagel the first time I cleaned out my videos." He still has his original videos somewhere? I need to look that up. Who could pass up the chance to watch a noob-y Woofless try to make a video? Now _that_ sounds like a good Sunday afternoon.

"And then?"

"Next is 'social media,' which I doubt you need any help with. Just remember not to abuse the Caps Lock and punctuation and everything looks gucci. The second 'S' stands for 'spacing,' or releasing your videos evenly over time."

"Okay, I'm not _that_ big of a frickin' noob. I know how to schedule uploads."

"I know that, but sometimes you still release multiple videos on one day, then nothing for a day or two afterward. Space it out a little more and you can build your credibility with your audience. People don't like change, and if you make yourself reliable, they will never have the chance to complain incessantly in the comments about how you posted seven videos last week but only five this week."

"And then they always want more."

"Exactly. It creeps up on you and explodes right in your face. Keep it steady but reasonable, and make extra uploads a treat instead of an expectation. If you start doing three a day then switch back to one a day, the comment section is going to turn into an absolute shitstorm."

"Good to know, senpai. That sounds like it'd be fun to see, though."

"Oh, it is. Just watch Mitch's channel in a few weeks when he cuts down his uploads to study for his exams. You would think someone had just bombed Disney World and set the legions loose." I crack the heck up at that and I just can't help it. After a few seconds Rob starts chuckling, too, but I guess the flashbacks from his own fan wars are just a little too real.

"And then?"

"Then the last one is 'editing.' This one is pretty obvious, and it includes adding visual and sound effects and cutting out unwanted footage. No one wants to see massive chunks of AFK or grinding footage or an excessive number of fails. It hurts your credibility and it makes you look like a noob."

"Don't show your chunks. Got it." He snorts into the mic and I can hear him snap the cap back on his marker.

"Any questions?"

"Yeah, uh… Are we there yet?"

"Yes, we are finally there. Are you good to go?"

"Of course! I'm always good to go, but you already knew that, bby."

"Oh-ho-ho! In your dreams, Cactus-kun. Only in your sweetest dreams." We sit in comfortable silence for a minute while he types something on his computer. As late as it is and as silly as it sounds, I really don't want him to hang up.

"Actually, I do have a question for you."

"What's up?"

"You be my senpai now?" He stops typing and I wonder what his face looks like right now. Was asking him that a big mistake?

"Do you want me to be your senpai?" Does he really have to ask? If it was any more obvious I have a bro-crush on the guy I swear I'd be beating on his door with flowers and a freaking wedding ring.

"Plz? I fan?" He sighs and pauses for a few seconds and I hope he's just screwing with me.

"Sure, I guess. I mean, I wanted to call you my 'Wooflett,' but I guess 'kohai' will work."

"Well, I was just gonna call you 'The Big Pleb' but I guess 'senpai' will work." He starts cackling and that just makes me laugh, too. His laugh is like a disease and I don't know if I love it or hate it. Every call we have is full of us just constantly laughing and it makes my ribs hurt, but in a good way.

"I should let you get back to the real world now, before you pass out at school tomorrow. I will see you Sunday?"

"Of course, you cactus. I wouldn't ditch you on a recording date."

"Oooh, a date," he coos in his cutesy voice and I just facepalm and try to hold back the smile.

"See ya later, pleb."

"Bye, kohai-chaaan!" I end the Skype call before my face can get any redder and before I have to slam my head on the desk and wake up Caleb next door. I throw the pen back in the drawer and just sit there for a while, staring at the notes from our little business meeting. It takes a minute for it to sink in, but when it does it feels like my stomach is full of fireworks. I just started a partnership with a big Tuber who knows what he's doing and he isn't even a smarmy, self-absorbed jerkwad. If it wasn't so late at night I'd start cheering. Anyone who said I wasn't gonna make a name for myself on YouTube is gonna eat their words and choke on 'em.

"Woof woof, mother fudgers."


	2. Lines

**Warning: If you are easily disturbed or have any triggers whatsoever, I recommend that you skip this chapter and never look back. I debated about whether or not to include this in the main body of "Video Love" and my doubt won out. If it becomes too much, I encourage you to click away as fast as you can. Please see the story description for a complete list of warnings.**

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 **March 22, 2012 at 11 AM, Montreal, Quebec: Rob**

"This place is fudgin' huge!" Preston gasps as he unlocks the door of our hotel room, slowly walking forward and letting the door hit me in his amazement. I use my shoulder to push it open again, grabbing my suitcase and nudging his gym bag into the room with my foot so I can close the door. Leave it to Preston to forget to grab his shit in the hallway. I set our luggage against the cream-colored wall and watch him move stiffly around the massive room, the key card still jutting out horizontally in his hand. He may be almost eighteen now, but he acts like such a five-year-old sometimes, with his mouth hanging open and his eyes wide in wonder. He turns around and looks at me, his face frozen in shock at our sheer luck.

"If this is how they apologize, they can screw up my hotel reservations whenever they want to," I joke and he nods, still speechless as he walks down a small set of wide, white stairs to the hot tub laid into the floor, his eyes unable to focus on any one object. I look around at the expensive, lavish suite around us, with the immense canopied bed, expansive entertainment center, and attached living room, wondering how some people can live in such decadence and luxury while so many others survive in poverty and squalor. As beautiful and extravagant as this room is, the thought of spending even three nights here is oddly disturbing to me. Even if I had the means, I would never live like this: wealth changes people in horrendous ways. After all, this has always been Jerome's greatest fear for Mitch, and I would hate to fall into the same trap. "Preston, you're drooling." He turns to look at me again and his gaze falls onto the gargantuan TV in front of the plush bed, his eyes skimming the many cut-outs in the modernesque entertainment center to see which video game consoles they had included.

"They have everything. Just… everything."

"Don't get too wrapped up in the room, Perston. We still have to go to the convention tomorrow, whether or not you want to pull yourself up out of the hot tub." He pouts and walks past me, flopping down on the oversized, square bed and sinking a good twenty centimeters into the mattress. He looks like he is in heaven but I can't help but think how useless all of these things are. Oddly enough, I would be more comfortable at home in my loud, foodless, musty apartment with Procyon and the worn-out couch from my parents' old house. I guess I would rather be 'the Flower Pauper' than 'the Flower King.' Am I just easily pleased, or is there actually something wrong with me?

"I call the bed," he moans as he kicks off his shoes and pretends to make a snow angel in the white, feathery bedspread, his dark hair fanned out around his head in a perfect circle.

"Fine by me." I open up the left side of the walk-in closet and pull out the fold-up bed they had included at the last moment, setting it up against the wall next to the window so I can enjoy the view while I pretend to sleep. I hate to have such a seemingly pessimistic view of the world, but few people realize that what they see as cynicism is simply my reality.

"What's wrong?" Preston asks as he flips over on his stomach and watches me work, his brows slightly furrowed in confusion. "I mean, you can have the bed if you really want it. Or we could share it?" The thought of doing that is so uncomfortable to him that it comes out like a question, and I can't blame him. I just smile and shake my head, slipping my shoes off and climbing onto my miniature bed to look at him.

"This is fine. Don't worry about it." He rolls his eyes and crawls off of his comically large bed to come sit in the armchair next to my cot, his hair still ruffled from his antics.

"Ya know, half the time I can't tell if you're being serious or if you're just being a martyr." I scoff in mock offense and cross my arms, putting on the fake angry face that always makes him smile. Sure enough, he cracks up with a hissing snicker and I start laughing, too.

"I just don't need a lot to be happy. Who do you think I am? Bitchy Mitch?" He bursts out laughing again at the mention of Jerome's newest nickname for his friend, after Mitch had complained about everyone choosing to book rooms in this apparently substandard hotel. In the end, they had ended up with a regular room with two twin beds while Preston and I had been upgraded to their honeymoon suite, after the clerk had forgotten to reserve a room for us. I wish I had gotten a picture of Mitch's face when he heard the news; that face alone is worth the flood of Poofless jokes being posted on Twitter right now.

"Nah, I think one of them's enough. Besides, you hafta have a job to be a diva." I huff and turn to look out the window, pretending to be hurt by his words. I gaze out at the yellow and orange sunlight reflecting off of the buildings all around, the bright light contrasting with the dark dots of birds and people below. I watch the sun begin to set and the yellows turn to pinks, lost in the beauty of the view until I hear a camera shutter behind me.

"If you keep that up, you will have more pictures of me from this trip than you will of you."

"You're more fun to take pictures of." I turn to look at him again and he shrugs, typing something on his phone before he posts the picture online for the world to see. Anyone else would have had a meltdown by now, but he knows it's much harder to make me angry and uses that to his advantage. At least Mom can't complain about me not taking any pictures this time. "What? You do weird stuff naturally and I'm running out of ideas for funny pictures."

"Why are you always such a cactus?"

"Pfft. I'm from Texas, dude. What was I supposed to be? An apple tree?" He makes his 'you should know better' face and finishes his tweet before he sighs and gets to his feet, yawning as he walks over to the entertainment center to peruse the small collection of video games they had sorted by console. He picks one and slides it into the matching machine, grabbing a pair of wireless controllers and bouncing up on the bed. He shuffles up to the padded headboard and settles down in the middle, frowning at me as he pats the spot next to him. "Come here, Rob-a-Dob-Flob. You know you wanna."

"I think I'll pass."

"Please?" He shoots me the biggest, cheesiest, most pathetic puppy dog eyes I have ever seen but I still shake my head. "Senpai plz. Think of the Poofless!" I try not to smile at the corny pout on his face, knowing that if I do I will have to join him on his squishy monstrosity of a bed. As usual, I fail. I give an exaggerated sigh and slowly walk over to the empty spot on the left side, noticing that he has more than half of the bed empty on the other side. Why does he always choose the most awkward place to sit?

"Are you really going to make me play Midnight Club, bro? Are you serious right now?"

"It's a classic! Don't be such a pleb." He drops a controller on my lap and he stares at the cars zooming past on the screen, undoubtedly making plans for the dream car he wants to buy when his ship comes in. "Now no try-harding. It's just for fun."

"Don't tell _me_ that. I'm not the try-hard here." He sticks his tongue out at me and designs a bright red Aston Martin while he jeers at my cerulean blue Land Rover, rubbing at his forehead in mock frustration.

"Get rekt, dude. No way you're gonna beat me with _that_!"

"No try-harding, Perston. Your words, not mine."

"I didn't mean you shouldn't actually _try,_ though."

"Someone's got a big head, eh? Bring it, Creeper face."

"Oh, we're goin' there now! I'm not scared of you, derp face!"

"O-okay."

"Dad gommit, Rob! Just play the fudging game!" The first race starts and our room falls dead silent except for the revving of the motors of our computer-generated cars. Whenever Preston is concerned, there is no such thing as not being a try-hard. Although his endless thirst for victory can be irritating sometimes, I can relate with my innate drive for perfection. We sit in absolute silence for who knows how long, moving directly from one race to another. After a while, we lose track of who is winning and we start to get sloppier with our gameplay: crashing into streetlights, chasing down pedestrians, hunting each other down.

The sun set long ago and we both have numerous missed notifications on our phones, but we continue to race. Eventually, Preston's car stops moving entirely. I turn toward him and see that he has fallen asleep, his head resting firmly on my shoulder with his fingers still on the buttons. I reach over and carefully take the controller out of his hands before slowly sliding off of the bed to turn off the lights and all of the electronics. He is still sitting upright when I creep back to my own bed, the light from the city below reflecting off of the buildings outside and illuminating his form on the other side of the room. I would say he was cute, but I am not allowed to think things like that, legally or morally. I put my arms back behind my head and stare out the window for a while, taking in the never-ending bustle of San Antonio. I check the time on my phone and see that it is only two in the morning, lunchtime on a typical day at home. I watch the city for a little while longer until I hear Preston gasp in his sleep and jump as if someone had snuck up behind him. I watch him for a few seconds, but he falls quiet again, his heavy breathing the only sound in the room. I drift off in my thoughts again and look up at the night sky, and when he hisses again it makes me jump, too.

"Hey, Preston. Are you okay?" He doesn't answer but he continues gasping for breath, his body visibly moving in the faint light. I just sit there for a second, trying to comprehend what is going on.

'Is he having a seizure?' I slowly walk over to the bed and turn the light on, startling him awake. His eyes are wide in terror as he looks down at his right arm, and mine are, too. There is a long, red line running from the crook of his elbow all the way down to the bend in his wrist with perfectly perpendicular dashes crossing through it every few centimeters. While we watch, small droplets of blood begin seeping through the gash, the crimson drops irrevocably staining the snow white bed. As soon as the first drop falls, Preston starts trembling uncontrollably, the movement causing even more blood to run out of the incision.

"R-Rob? What's… happening?" He tears his eyes away from the line and he looks up at me, pleading for me to help him. "Rob, p-please." I snap out of my trance and grab the nearest pillow, ripping the pristine pillowcase along the seams to create a makeshift bandage. I couldn't give less of a shit about this godforsaken hotel room right now; I can pay for damages later.

"Shh, shh, it's alright. Everything is going to be fine. Give me your arm so we can stop the bleeding." He can barely nod as he stares blankly at me, his eyes briefly fixating on the matching scars on my right arm as I wrap the thick cloth around the wound. He is going into shock and I have nothing here that I can use to help him. "I need you to lie down, okay? You are going to lie down and put your feet up until the ambulance gets here." I grab the huge, fluffy pillow I had thrown on the floor and put it down by his feet, crawling up onto the bed to help him move. As soon as I get close enough to put my arm behind his back to maneuver him, he cries out in pain again and curls in on himself, holding his other arm to his chest. "Preston! What happened?"

"Stop! Make it stop!"

"I'm trying, but first you have to tell me what's wrong!" He shakily moves his left arm toward me and holds it out for me to see the identical crisscrossing lines that had been cut into his other arm, and that I had cut into both of mine long ago. A small trail of blood is running down his arm and dripping onto his t-shirt, a slow but steady stream.

"Rob, make it stop," he whimpers, his eyes large and childlike. He seems so small, so young, so innocent right now, shivering in outright terror and trying to curl up to hide from the pain. I have been responsible for taking care of Preston from the beginning, but the weight of that duty has never been heavier than it is right now.

"I will, I will. It looks scary right now, but it isn't very deep. I am going to wrap it up like the other one and call for an ambulance, okay? Do you know what number you call for an ambulance?"

"N-nine-one-one."

"Okay, good. That's the same as it is in Canada. Have you ever been in an ambulance before?" He nods gently, slowly beginning to pull himself back together.

'I need to keep him talking so he doesn't go into shock while I try to figure out what's going on here.'

"When? What happened last time?"

"I f-fell and Dad t-thought I broke my leg." I grab another pillow and start ripping the cover apart along the sides, setting the useless, puffy decoration at the end of the bed.

"Did Daka push you out of a window?" He smiles slightly and I notice he isn't shaking as much as he was a few seconds ago.

"No, Sam was t-trying to teach me how to ride a bike. I got hit by a c-car."

"Ouch. I bet he got in a lot of trouble for that."

"Y-yeah. It's the only time I've ever s-seen him c-cry." I start wrapping the strip of cloth around his arm, doubling it over to soak up more blood just like I used to do with my gauze. "He… he thought he k-killed me. That's what he kept screaming over and… over again."

"Did you break your leg?" He gives a small, nervous laugh as he watches me, his eyes still unfocused and dilated.

"No, but I got a concussion. All I remember is Sam s-screaming and Dad running outside and… kicking the guy's car. When we g-got to the hospital, he started crying, too. Then I started laughing and everyone else thought it was f-funny."

"You always make everyone laugh. That's why you're so good at making videos." He looks up at me, his eyes staring unblinkingly into mine.

"I'm not that good. Not like you and Mitch and Jerome."

"That's bullshit. You are better than me and you know it. You are a natural comedian and you have a way with people, unlike me." I tuck the corner of the cloth into the bottom of the makeshift wrap and wipe my bloody hands on the smooth, silky bedspread. He rolls his eyes weakly and I smile as I dig my phone out of my pocket, doing my best to remain calm for Preston's sake. Now I know how the others felt when they found me passed out in a puddle of my own blood.

'Except Preston is innocent and you were guilty as charged. Imagine how they felt when they found you.' I will never forget the sound of Dad sobbing, or the look on Mitch's face when I came to in the hospital bed. Those moments still haunt me every time I sink back down into the darkness.

'No, I can't afford to think about that right now. I have to help Preston.' I absent-mindedly rest my hand on his shoulder, trying to keep him calm and steady while I call for help. That was the biggest mistake I could have made. As soon as my hand touches him, he lets out a bloodcurdling scream and violently flinches away, the sound and sudden movement causing me to drop my phone.

"Oh, God. Are you okay?" He just keeps screaming, his legs thrashing around in pain. He nearly kicks me in the stomach and I gently block his foot, causing him to wail again and pull his knees up to his chest. I watch in horror as a red line appears where my hand had touched him, the cut slicing right through his sock and causing the fabric around it to pull apart and darken from the steady drops of blood.

'This has to be a nightmare. This doesn't make any sense. I have to wake up, I have to end this.' I try pinching myself several times in vain, knowing that this little strategy had never worked in the past. Preston's scream trails off into a constant whimper, his body trembling more violently than ever. I look down at my hands and see that now I am shaking, too. I raise my forearm up to my mouth and bite down firmly, hoping against hope that the imagined pain would wake me up; it just hurts. I watch the skin on my arm redden and small bubbles of blood rise from the middle four spots, knowing that I am either trapped in this dream or I am trying to escape from reality.

"R-Rob… Help me. Please help me." He is openly sobbing now, smearing streaks of blood from his soaked bandages across his face as he tries to wipe away the tears. This is so real, so believable, so terrifying… This is my worst nightmare in action. I am killing Preston.

"I-I don't know how."

"Please." He carefully sits up and starts to crawl toward me on the bed, barely keeping himself upright from his trembling. I back away from him, my hands brushing up against the giant TV screen. " _Please_!"

"I don't want to hurt you. Please, don't come any closer."

"Rob, d-don't leave me!" He shakily gets to his feet and stumbles toward me, his eyes so full of fear he almost doesn't look like himself. Seeing the usually cheerful, strong, stoic Preston turned into a bloody, sobbing, defenseless mess hurts me more than seeing my own body being cut to pieces. This is the most horrific thing I can imagine. "Please c-come back!"

"Preston, I… I can't- No!" He falls forward and I instinctively reach out to catch him, but he would have been better off falling to the floor. Everywhere I touch him more thin, red lines appear. He whimpers from the pain but immediately moves closer to me, pressing himself into my chest as if I can somehow protect him from the agony I am inflicting on him. Doesn't he understand that I am the one hurting him?

"Rob, p-please… please help me," he whispers, moving away just enough to look up at me. The flesh on the side of his face has been carved into dozens of tiny triangles and squares, the layers of muscle peeling away in ragged strips to reveal the pearly white bone underneath. "Do something. Say something. Please!" All I can do is shake my head and gently move away from him, backing up closer to the door.

"I-I can't help you. There's… there's nothing I can do. Please, please just stay away." His face is scrunched up as he lets out another sob, breaking down as my betrayal sinks in. Why doesn't he understand that by helping him I am only hurting him more? Why does he keep running back to me?

"You c-can't do this, Rob! You have to help me!" He wobbles on his feet for a few seconds before he starts moving toward me again, stopping in his tracks when he catches sight of himself in the mirror on the closet door. He turns to look at himself and I can see his back clearly: the places where I had touched him to move him on the bed and where I had caught him when he fell have been cut into so many miniscule strips that his flesh looks like ground hamburger. He screams and his hands automatically move up to his face as he tries to prove to himself that what he sees isn't real. More wire-thin lines appear while I watch, and a large chunk of flesh and hair falls to the floor. When I look up at him again, I see that the entire left side of his face is bloody bone and air, only a few fibers of muscle still connected along his hairline. His ear and eyelid are completely gone, and his eye now has a line running across it, drops of red and clear fluid dripping down the remains of his face. "I-I'm dying… Rob, you have to help me. Please help me."

"I'm sorry. I'm so, so sorry. Preston, I didn't mean to hurt you. I only tried to help…" He is falling apart before my eyes and there is nothing I can do to stop it. The only thing I can do is make it go faster and end his misery. I step forward and throw my arms around him, holding him close while he shudders and sobs against my neck. There is so much blood it feels like I am bathing in it, and I feel hot drops flow over my shoulders and along my back, and down my legs and into my socks. Every molecule of my body is soaked in his blood, and every drop he loses feels like it is coming directly out of my veins. I killed my best friend.

His sobs quickly turn into coughs and he begins to gag on pieces of his own body as he continues to be ripped apart. I slide us down to the ground when he begins to slip away from my grasp, the flesh on his back coming loose in sheets. He is so weak from the blood loss that he has become dead weight, and I find myself morbidly surprised that he hasn't died yet. I can feel his spine and ribcage beneath my fingers, and when he coughs again I can feel his heart pumping against the palm of my hand. It seems like hours have passed when his body finally gives up and stops fighting, and his skeletal remains slump limply against my chest with one final, choking breath. I sit there with him in my arms for what feels like forever, praying to a God I have never believed in that this is just a dream, that I am slowly going insane and that this is all going on inside of my demented, twisted mind. Nothing has ever been this vivid or terrifying, but it can't be real. This can't be real. It can't be real, it just can't.

I gently lay him down on the soft floor in the puddle of congealing blood and melted flesh, and I see that the right side of his face is still intact, still perfect, still flawless. The rest of his body – his skin, his muscle, and even his organs – has turned into a warm, red and black mush spread all across the light, cream-colored carpet. I can't stand to look at it, but I can't look away. His skeleton seems so small compared to me, and I'm reminded once again that he is just a kid. I fell in love with a stupid, naïve, pompous, charismatic, kindhearted seventeen-year-old kid, and then I killed him. I killed him with my bare hands.

"Preston, I-I…" I don't know when I started bawling, but I can't stop. I run my thumb over his cool cheek, feeling the softness of his skin and a few small patches of stubble. He is just a kid. Why did this have to happen to him? Why did sweet, happy-go-lucky, loveable Preston have to die while I get to go on living? Why should I, the broken, psychotic, suicidal, worthless mess be allowed to live longer than someone as whole, happy, loving, and warm as him? I deserved to die, and I still do.

I jump when someone knocks on the door but I ignore it, hoping they will lose interest and leave me here to mourn. I hug my knees to my chest and cover my ears with my arms, trying to block out the noise. There is nothing anybody can do to help him now, not even me. What I wouldn't give to trade places with him right now, to have someone or something carve me up into thousands of little pieces and let me end the pain. What I wouldn't give to be resting in peace on the floor right now, staring up at the tall, white ceiling and seeing heaven. I gently close his eye and wipe the smear of dried blood from his face, trying my best to somehow believe that he is just sleeping, or that I am. How do you cope when living becomes the most painful thing you can imagine? There can only be one answer to that question.

"Yo, Rob! We know you're in there. Slap Pressy awake so we can grab something to eat before the meet-up." I forgot Jerome was at the hotel with us, and Mitch is probably right there next to him. They continue pounding on the door and it brings more anger than fear or relief. The rage builds and builds with every knock, and I feel something snap deep inside of me. They have no business being here: they were never friends with Preston like I was, and they never would have done what I did to save him. They never would have sacrificed their lives, their sanity for him like I did. They never loved him like I did. I won't let them take him away from me, now or ever. "Rob? Preston? Come on, guys. We're running late as it is because a certain _someone_ didn't call to wake us up like he said he would."

"Rob? Are you dead or something, dood?"

"Do you think they went downstairs without us?"

"I doubt it. Are we talking about the same Rob here? He's like fucking clockwork." One of them starts pounding on the door with the palm of his hand, and that noise is even more maddening that their knocking. I can't block them out, I can't make them stop.

'Help me. Please, help me.'

"Guys, this isn't funny anymore. Rob? Can you hear me, dood?" The knocking gets louder and more frantic now, and I am at the edge of my breaking point. They have to stop. Please, make it stop. "Rob? Preston? Please open the door. If you want us to leave, you have to open the door."

"Should I try calling them?"

"Yeah, yeah. Hopefully their room is so big that they just didn't hear us." I see my phone vibrating silently on the floor next to the bed, our group photo from PAX East lighting up the screen. I watch it ring until it goes to the blue voicemail screen, Jerome's smiling Bacca face flashing over and over to show that I had missed his call. "Anything?"

"Nothin'. Let me try Pressy. He always picks up." An obnoxious, generic techno song blasts out of Preston's phone in his pocket, the sound only slightly muffled by the loose, blood-soaked fabric of his jeans. "Shit. They're in there like right next to the door. Either they're fucking with us or…"

"Rob, I mean it. Open the fucking door or we'll break it down." Mitch always has to be the obnoxious, obstinate one. I slowly get to my feet and brush the chunks of cold, sticky flesh from my clothes, moving toward the door. I have to stop them before they wake up everyone on this floor, especially Preston. He doesn't need to know they were ever here. I won't let them take him away from me. They don't deserve him.

"Hey, guys. I'm sorry we didn't hear you earlier. We didn't know you were here until Preston's phone went off," I yell, my voice as calm and even as ever. I plaster a smile on my face like always and prepare to continue the show. I take one last look at Preston's peaceful, still form before I unlock the door and peek out at them, their eyes widening when they see my face. There is no doubt in my mind that my head is covered in blood.

'Look at them. Mitch with that smartass look on his face and Jerome with his ugly fucking hat. They must really think they're something, coming up here to bother us.' Mitch takes a step back from the door, checking behind him to see how far he has to go before he can reach the elevator, and Jerome stares at me blankly, his mouth hanging open and his body frozen in place. If this had been a prank, the video would have gone viral.

"Rob, what the fuck is that?" I follow Mitch's eyes down to my hand and I see a large, bloodstained paring knife clenched tightly in my fist, my knuckles turning white from the pressure. I stare down at it for a second, trying to piece together what was happening. I don't remember finding it, but I have two just like it back at home. How fortunate: now I can use it to protect Preston from these lying, hateful bastards.

"I don't know, Mitch. I don't know where it came from," I answer truthfully, one half of my mind telling me to drop it and run back into the room while the other half says to hold onto it tighter. As usual, the darker half wins the battle.

"Rob, this isn't funny, okay? If you're fucking around with us, you win. You got us good. Now put the knife down and we can talk about how good you got us."

"Do you think I'm crazy, Mitchell? Ouch, man. That really hurts me, right _here_." I use the point of the sticky knife to beckon to my heart, taking a step forward and watching Mitch take three steps back. I see his eyes dart over to Jerome, who is still standing only about a meter away from me, petrified to the spot. I never thought I would see the day when I overpowered the Bacca.

"Jerome, get the fuck out of there. Come on, biggums. You can't just stand there and watch. This isn't a video game." Mitch eyes me warily as I lean against the doorframe, the knife still clutched tightly in my hand.

'Oh, this is going to be good. Will the famous BajanCanadian step up and save his best friend, or will he make a break for it to save his own ass like Jerome always feared he would? I guess there is only one way to find out.' I take a small step toward Jerome, watching Mitch halfway down the hall. He is the only threat here.

"Jerome, wake up! We have to get out of here. Come on, snap out of it!"

"I think I just pissed myself," Jerome replies, his wide eyes focused on the knife only half a meter away from his stomach.

"Rob, where's Preston?"

"Mitch, this isn't funny anymore," Jerome says, watching me creep closer to him as the full situation finally registers in his brain.

"Rob, tell me where Preston is."

"The joke's over, man. You got us."

"Is he holding the camera for you? Tell me, Rob. I need to know where Preston is."

"He is in our room, Mitch. Where else would he be?" I answer matter-of-factly, watching in satisfaction as Jerome tries to move away from me but only manages to back himself up against the wall by the fire extinguisher.

"You got us good, Woof. _Real_ good. "

"What is he doing in the room? Is he filming this? Is he having a good laugh, too?"

"Don't worry about Preston, Mitch. He's still sleeping like a baby. This is _all_ me." Mitch looks completely helpless, watching in terror as I slide closer to his friend. Jerome slowly inches along the wall toward the elevator, one hand covering his mouth as his face turns pale and green.

'Who doesn't know how to handle pressure now, Jerome? Who is the weak one now?' I lock eyes with him and see that the human part of his brain has shut down entirely; all I see is pure, animalistic fear.

"Rob, we can talk about this. Please dood, just go back to your room and wake Preston up and we can all sit down and talk about this. How does that sound?" I feel the plastic smile fade from my face as I look over at him, his usual smugness replaced by a sober, all-encompassing dread. He knows now. He knows what I did to protect Preston. He came to take him away, just like I knew he would.

"Mitch, please. Please make him stop."

'Stop! Make it stop!' I turn my attention back to Jerome, and as soon as our eyes meet he turns and bolts down the hallway toward Mitch, as if that would save him. If he would have tried this earlier, he might have gotten away. I grab the back of his shirt and yank him backward, watching with pleasure as he falls flat on his back and his atrocious pink and yellow hat flies across the hall. I crouch over him, staring down into his dark, blank eyes, watching him relive his life at the speed of light. He doesn't have the same look in his eyes Preston did – he doesn't love me like Preston does.

"What's wrong, man? I thought you liked the Hunger Games!" I slowly draw back the knife, savoring the look of complete resignation on his face. He knows this game is over.

"Get the fuck away from him!" I get a faceful of crispy hair and cheap body spray as Mitch tackles me down to the floor and tries to wrestle the knife away from me. I might not be as naturally strong as Preston is, but I am running on an entirely new kind of energy now. Nothing can stop me. We struggle for a few seconds before I finally manage to throw him off. He tries to run again but I grab a fistful of his hair and throw him back down, pinning him down and using the very tip of my knife to draw a short, straight line across his left cheek. I have never seen Mitch look less cocky.

"Now would you look at this, Mitchy. I think it's time for the death match to start."

"You have completely lost it, Rob. Look at yourself. What are you doing, dood?"

"I'm not doing anything. You did this. You came up here and tried to take him away from me. You should have known what would happen if you tried to hurt Preston."

"We would never-"

"Liar!" I swipe the tip of the knife across his face, careful not to cut too deep; the fun ends too quickly if you cut too deep. He cries out in pain and I hear the tinkle of breaking glass behind me, but I can't bring myself to look away. His blood is brighter than Preston's was and it flows much easier. This might be the fastest Hunger Games in history. I draw back my knife and prepare to cut into his chest, needing to see if he can die as calmly, slowly, and beautifully as Preston did. Mitch doesn't seem as strong. I can see the knife arcing through the air, aimed directly at the spot between his collar bones. It's so close now I can almost smell that first gush of fresh blood, I can almost hear him scream.

The knife flies out of my hand as I roll off of Mitch, the perfect red and silver blade soaring through the air before it skitters across the floor toward the elevator. Before I can take another breath, I am being pushed over onto my back to stare up at the ceiling, just like Preston. Jerome is hovering above me with tears streaming down his face, his hand swinging a large, bloody shard of glass directly at my chest. I have no desire to stop him. This is all I really wanted. The first cut hurts a thousand times more than my scalpel ever did, but I would endure the pain until the end of time for Preston. I would do anything for him. The second stab hurts just as much as he pierces fresh skin, but I barely feel the third one. The hard glass hits my ribs, the contact sending vibrations through what used to be my chest. The only time it hurts is when it goes all the way through me and cuts through my back. He continues slicing into my body, his face contorted in a feral fury. I laugh, knowing that killing me is going to kill him, too.

"Jerome, stop! You have to stop!" Mitch is trying to hold him back and snatch the glass away from him, but he never had a chance: Jerome is completely out of control.

"Why? Why?!" he yells, his tears dripping down onto my neck and arms as he continues to chop away at me. I feel a genuine smile spread across my face, and the twitch of the muscles in my cheeks is the last thing I feel. I watch him until my vision fades to nothing, knowing that the look of stubborn determination and all-consuming rage on his face will be the last thing I ever see. The end is finally here and the only thing I can do is smile.

'Everything will be perfect now. I can finally be with Preston. No one can take him away from me now.'

"Thank you." The last thing I hear is the sound of Jerome screaming.

* * *

I wake up screaming at the top of my lungs, my eyes darting wildly around my bedroom to find Jerome and his shard of glass. I am alone. I pull my legs up to my chest and curl up into a ball, trying to force myself to come to grips with the situation and pull myself together. My entire body is shaking in terror and a torrent of tears is cascading down my face and neck. I can feel that my shirt and pillow are both soaked, either with tears or sweat. I don't know how long I was crying in my sleep, but I have no illusions that I will be able to stop now. I have lost all of my self-control and I know I must be losing my mind.

Five days. I went five days without sleep this time to try to fight off the dreams filled with blood and death. I thought that starving myself of sleep would put an entire to that repeating nightmare, but it only made it infinitely worse. Watching myself being cut apart and bleeding out seems tame, almost comfortable, compared to what I just experienced. I have never been more terrified or felt more devastated by a dream. Am I going insane? Is that what I truly think about deep inside my mind while I am asleep? Do I subconsciously think about mutilating and murdering my friends? Was I trying to tell myself something about my relationship with Preston? Am I hurting him by being so close to him? But most importantly: am I capable of doing those things if I am pushed too far?

I will be the first one to admit that I need help, and I need it as soon as humanly possible. I can't stop picturing it, I can't stop crying, I can't even move. I am immobilized here in my own mind, trying in vain to fight back hysterical sobs and persuade myself that none of it ever happened. It was so vivid and convincing that it could have almost passed as reality. Now I am not just battling with the guilt and demons from my past, but I am constructing my absolute worst nightmare, and I know that as soon as I close my eyes I will be transported back into that grandiose hotel room with Preston to relive it all again with no memory of past dreams or control of my actions. I need to do something about this to keep it from happening again. I don't know if I can take it. My only defense is to stop sleeping again, but I know that that is only a detrimental, temporary solution. I have to talk to Dr. Theresa about this and put an end to these nightmares before they can somehow get worse.

I can't go out in public. I can't be seen like this and I can't even pull myself back together at home in my bed, let alone while I am trying to drive. I don't trust myself around people so I can't ask Mitch to drive over and escort me to Theresa's office. I am afraid of myself and what I might do. If I am thinking about it in such detail, what is stopping me from doing it? My sobs slowly turn into sniffles, and eventually those dry up, too. I sit there with my chin on my knees and watch the lines cast by the window shift. Time passes but I can't keep track of it anymore. I stare at the reflection of sunlight on the door handle and try to lose myself and forget. When the sun moves and the reflection begins to fade, I hear my phone vibrate on the nightstand and flinch away in terror. My nerves are so frayed that one wrong step is going to send me over the edge again. I try to work up the courage to check the text message, and my hand is still shaking when I reach over to grab it. It takes three tries to type in my password. I see Preston's scowling lava mob pop up on the screen and a sudden wave of relief washes over me. Part of me must have believed that he was truly gone.

 _Perst[heart]n: Let me know when youre up so we can record k?_

I catch my breath for a few seconds before I reply, knowing already that he is going to be worrying about me. I feel horrible enough already without worrying about him worrying about me. I wish he was as carefree and unattached with me as he is with everyone else. Why do I always have to drag everyone else down to the depths with me?

 _Me: Hey, I hate to cancel on you but I don't feel well today. I was going to take the day off._

 _Me: Please don't freak out about it. I just caught a cold on the plane ride back from Cactus Land._

 _Perst[heart]n: Are you sure dude? Have you been sleeping enough?_

 _Me: Yes, Dad. If anything I sleep too much. I will make it up to you tomorrow._

 _Perst[heart]n: Dont worry about it, just get some rest. See ya later bby._

A small smile breaks through and I close the text message to open up the contacts list on my phone. Although her fee for a house call is going to cut massively into my food budget for the month, I need to talk to Theresa about this and piece myself back together. She knows me too well by now and she always brings a gun with her on home visits, so I know I can't hurt her. With a little luck, she might prescribe me something strong enough to end this cycle of sleep deprivation and terror. I sigh and work up the energy to move from my spot against the headboard to take a shower before I call her, flinching as I move my arm to pull myself up. Along the bottom of my arm are two rows of curved teeth marks, with drops of dried blood trailing from the spots where my four front teeth had bit into the flesh. If I hurt myself just like I did in the dream, how much of that scene would I reenact if the others were with me? I can't afford to find out.


	3. Words

**November 21, 2012 at 2 AM, San Francisco, California: Choco**

* * *

 _A hurricane of sandy brown leaves swirls around them as they fly through the deathly still woodlands, their frantic hearts beating as one as the silent menace approaches steadily, inexorably on their pulsing heat signals. His feet stumble slowly over the smooth, unstable stones spanning the center of the rushing stream, his weary eyes too focused on the deadly water swirling around him to notice the man watching him with concern from the far side of the riverbank. He would be furious if he knew the other had stopped to wait for him. His face would contort in disgust and shame, knowing that his childish trepidation of the water was the reason the human had stopped, wasting his precious life seconds to ensure the hybrid's safety. With a fearful glance behind his friend, the taller of the two reaches across the gap and pulls the lava mob across, muttering a soft apology when he sees the glowing creature wince as the cold spray comes in contact with his bare hand, a tiny stream of steam rising from the point of contact._

 _"_ _Just shut up and go!" the lava mob whispers angrily as he shoves his friend forward into the dark forest. He pulls the brown, musty blanket they had swiped from the desert village over his trembling head to hide the effervescent glow of his bright fiery skin from the omnipresent drones soaring stealthily overhead. One glimpse of them between the dense, dark, dying leaves and both of them would be dead, too – or worse, they would do their horrific experiments on Rob this time. They would play God with his humanity, they would turn him into a monster. What they had done to Preston was irreversible. He couldn't let them do that to his only true friend, the only one who stuck beside him when everything else fell apart and the world turned against him, the only one who kept him human. If only one of them could escape, he would make sure it was Rob._

 _Rob trips and stumbles into a hidden cave, grunting pathetically as he slips down into the endless, unforgiving darkness. Preston follows faithfully, turning to shove a stray boulder into the small gap to prevent the dreaded drones from pursuing. He turns to follow the human deeper into the damp cave, ducking with a faint whimper as a family of angry vampire bats fly past his head and back towards the now blocked exit. They would never dare try to bite a creature made of lava, but they still inhabited the darkest corners of his mind and plagued his empty dreams. One mining adventure gone terribly wrong had brought him into this mess in the first place. He opens up the front of his scratchy makeshift shawl to light up the bowels of the cave, his body a walking, breathing torch. He watches the dim blue light from Rob's flashlight warily as he checks around the gargantuan room for signs of life, food, or shelter. He walks towards a second exit from the main chamber and moves to peek over the edge of the sharp cliff face when he hears the sound he fears the most._

 _"_ _Preston!" The lava mob's heart sinks and turns into obsidian, weighing him down and freezing him in his tracks as the startled shriek echoes off of the stone walls and assaults his ears. He follows the sound of the voice to the room Rob had entered, gasping when he sees his friend's golden dagger shattered on the floor at his feet next to a bundle of severed optical cords and decimated computer chips. There was nothing left for him to do; the damage had already been done. "Preston… Are you okay?"_

 _How could he ask that? How could this foolish human be concerned with the hybrid's safety when he himself was dying, a black steel lance wedged between his ribs, the weapon still loosely attached to the destroyed drone on the blood-splattered floor of the cave. Why had they separated? Why did he always have to be the one who hurt everyone around him? This was all his fault. He was the one who deserved to die but, once again, he will be the only one who lives._

 _"_ _We're both fine, we're both gonna make it out of this." Rob smiles weakly and gestures at the sharp blade protruding from the sickening indentation in his chest, his filthy blue hoodie turning midnight purple from the spreading wave of blood and his breathing becomes more and more labored.._

 _"_ _You were never a good liar, Preston," he says gently while he hands their backpack of supplies to the lava mob, his eyes squinting in pain from the movement. "Take this and go. It sent the location to the mainframe before I could gut it. You have to run."_

 _"_ _No! I'm not leaving you here!"_

 _"_ _You have to! It's the only way! You can make it to the border, Preston. You can make it back home to your family, but you have to go now. We both knew I never had a chance, anyway." He looks into the human's still-bright, green-flecked hazel eyes and nods, swinging the heavy backpack onto his shoulders and leaning down to pick up the startled, wounded human, carefully disentangling the snakelike cords running through the cold metal arm of the drone to the spike keeping his friend's wound closed. "What are you doing? You are wasting time! You have to go!" He walks them back to the room he had been searching when he heard Rob scream, the human still oblivious to his plan._

 _"_ _Neither of us ever had a chance, not against them."_

 _"_ _Preston, no!"_

 _"_ _I love you, Rob." With that final whisper, the lava mob yanks the pitch black steel bar out of his friend's chest, watching in sympathy as his eyes widen and his breath catches in his throat._

 _"_ _I-I love… you, too," Rob laughs quietly through the growing pool of blood in his mouth, their words echoing softly in the steep ravine and wrapping comfortably around them as they hurtle to the bottom of the immense cavern and into the lake of freezing water below. Now the scientists couldn't hurt either one of them._

 _'_ _I love you.'_

* * *

It wasn't perfect, but it wasn't too bad, either. It was up there with that Hunger Games series I wrote over the summer before I met Preston, and I think the people who read that story would appreciate this… thing. For just a five chapter short story, this monster took _way_ too long to write and it isn't even that good. I guess I should be glad I don't write for a living, quality-wise. All I have to do is churn out something that someone somewhere might have some motivation to read and share around. The good thing is that the bar isn't set too high. I ain't no Hemingway. I edit through the chapter a couple more times before I save it and attach it to an e-mail, sending the story in its entirety to The Boss. I sit back and settle in with a fresh, cool can of black cherry Fresca with some quiet, smooth jazz playing through my headphones to block out that dang chihuahua barking next door. I check up on the magical world of Twitter while I wait for a response, knowing that he's been sitting around, editing his latest videos with Mitch while he waits for my morning report to fill him in on all the beastly news. I should make Zazu's song from "The Lion King" my theme for this informant job. I think Jerome would like that – me just breaking into song every time he calls me. Disney is love. Disney is life.

I'm only halfway through my YouTube comment check when His Highness replies with his usual Lenny face and a 12/10 rating. I know I should be happy he didn't zap me off the face of the Earth when he hacked into my computer and saw my files and browsing history, or worse, tell Preston about it. I would've been so dead. But this whole project just makes my moral compass go completely haywire. I think I'm stuck in the Bermuda Triangle and I can't get out. I log into my tier one WattPad account and write a quick story description and I post the first chapter before I head over to and Tumblr and do the same thing under the same username. A small flurry of reblogs, favorites, and votes follows and I lean back in my chair, torn between satisfaction and guilt.

I am Poofmore, one of the most renowned Poofless 'fangirls' on the entire internet, and one of the original and most dedicated supporters of the OTP of the decade. It had started as an innocent hobby, a way to joke around with some of Preston's fans and poke fun at the fandom and his videos where he'd never see it. Now… Now it's turning into more than just a hobby. This is part of my job, a job that I desperately need and can't afford to lose. I'm a professional Minecraft YouTuber shipper and I'm stuck in a moral grey area that haunts my dreams and hurts my heart just enough that it bothers me, but not enough to make me stop. This is all for the greater good, right? Like Billy Joel famously said: we didn't start the fire, we just fed it. And it'll burn on and on and on and on even after I'm gone. At least, I hope it will.

Anyone with eyes, ears, nostrils, fingers, or anything else can see that Rob and Preston have it bad for each other, but they're too fleeping stubborn to do anything about it except sit there and make cutesy faces and sex jokes at each other from two thousand miles away. Jerome has made it his pet project to get them together by any means necessary, and he hired me to help him do it. My strategy is to fire up the fandom so they'll mega spam their social media with Poofless everything until they see how much nicer and easier it would be if they'd just give in and kiss each other already. I'm four, five seconds from tattooing that "just kiss" meme from Reddit right on their hands so they'll have to look at it all day and night. I could also buy them both dinner and sing that one kissing song from "The Little Mermaid"… but I would like to keep my throat intact. For now, everything rests on my stories and my tweets and the ripples they make in the fandom. Maybe if we're lucky, they might learn a few tips and tricks of the trade when they read some of the less innocent fics.

It sounds like a brilliant master plan, right? Unfortunately, it doesn't look like it's working. Yet. Key word here is _yet._ It just makes Rob even more sad than he already is, and it royally pisses Preston off to a different space-time continuum. I have a lot of work ahead of me before I can call it quits. What Preston doesn't realize is that three of the biggest Poofless fan fic writers, one of the biggest Poofless photo editors, and two of the biggest Poofless Twitter stalkers are all actually just one person – and one of his best friends, at that. Yeah, I feel like a liar, a scammer, and a cheat for doing this to him, but it's all for his own good. I think. And to be fair, I was doing this stuff before I actually met him, and I have a public account that I post non-YouTuber stories on to cover my tracks. I didn't just jump on the money truck to save my own butt. I hope someday we'll get to a point where he'll thank me for my services, if he ever finds out. I know Rob will appreciate it; yet again he isn't the one in denial, either. As long as Poofless stays on speaking terms and neither of them finds out who I really am, life is great. I log out of all of my accounts and log in to my official Poofmore Twitter account to comment on Preston's last tweet and I post a link to my newest fan fic, "Experiment 72." My phone starts chirping merrily as the retweets and favorites begin.

Maybe there's a reason that the Twitter logo is a bird. Was this meant to be?

* * *

 **This chapter takes place chronologically between chapters 26 and 27 of "Video Love." It wasn't something you needed to know, but I hope you found it entertaining. What has been seen cannot be unseen.**


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